


Good Vibrations

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awkward Flirting, Coulson and his ridiculous crush on Skye, Coulson loves Skye, D/s, Day 2: compromised, F/M, Humor, Naked Male Clothed Female, Sex Toys, Skye's Catholic upbringing, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, skoulsonfest2k15redux, skye and coulson and sex shops, skye's superhero outfit, superhero costumes and fetishwear have a lot in common
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Or, Three Times Skye and Coulson Find Themselves at a Sex Shop) </p><p>For Skoulsonfest2k15 Redux, Day 2: Compromised. When he gets flustered, Coulson has a tendency to blurt out things that maybe he shouldn't. (But it generally works out okay for him.) </p><p>Chapter 1: Fetishware and superhero costumes have a lot in common<br/>Chapter 2: Awkward conversations about sex toys<br/>Chapter 3: Coulson and Skye utterly miss the point of flavored lube (but their way is pretty great)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’ve just finished a mission — making contact with a young gifted girl in Manhattan. Or, really, Skye has just finished the mission, and he’s along for the ride as much as anything.

He’s missed seeing her a lot recently, though — she’s been off base entirely too much for his taste — and he wasn’t really thinking beyond that when he tagged along on this trip, which would have otherwise cut into her time with him.

With the team, rather. Not with him.

Still, she didn’t object when he invited himself along, and she’s even requested a night out before they head back.

Which is why they’re walking down Broadway from Central Park, headed to the Times Square TKTS kiosk to buy theater tickets for tonight — she’s convinced him to be open minded and try something new without any planning. It’s not at all how Coulson does things, especially for a night out with a beautiful woman, but he’s going along with it. There’s something kind of fun, he supposes, in the impulsivity.

Still, he’s surprised — as he’s walking down Broadway with Skye, marveling at his own spontaneity — when she stops him, her hand on his left wrist (and he’s still not used to it, the way he can’t exactly feel it, the way the prosthesis doesn’t really feel like _him_ ), and pulls him back out of the foot traffic.

“I grew up around here, you know,” she says while looking up and down the street as though maybe she’ll see her younger self.

“Yes,” he agrees. He knows. He’s seen her file, knows the address where St. Agnes was located before it was destroyed in the wake of the Battle of New York.

He only really knows about the fate of St. Agnes because the whole area has been on their radar quite a lot in the past year thanks to a masked vigilante who may or may not be gifted. (Skye has decided she likes him and what he’s doing, and so has decided on a wait-and-see approach as to whether it’s worth reaching out. Coulson is taking her lead.)

Reading about her old stomping ground is different than standing here, though, looking at now-unfamiliar streets.

It takes effort to stay silent, to wait for her to share more.

But he’s sure that there’s more she wants to say.

“It looks so different.”

“Do you want to…” He gestures across the street, offering to walk a few long blocks out of the way to where the orphanage used to be.

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

They walk slowly, so Skye can take in how much things have changed — not just since she left, but since the city was rebuilt by developers more interested in making money than preserving history.

She pauses on a corner and looks up at the street signs, clearly disappointed at needing that marker, and takes in the high-rise that now stands where St. Agnes once did.

“It gives new meaning to the idea that you can’t go home again, huh?”

And of course she tosses it off like a joke, but he can see it in her eyes that this hurts, hurts more than she thought it would.

He’s not used to seeing her so exposed, so _raw_ , and he quickly loses the battle he sometimes has with himself about getting too close to her.

(To be fair, he’s gotten used to losing that battle.)

His left hand — the one he can’t feel, the one that still doesn’t feel like his — wraps around her shoulder and tugs her gently towards him, an offering more than a direction. She takes it, stepping easily into his arms and laying her forehead against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, a sad little sound near his ear.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I don’t care about this place,” she tells him, as though it’s important that he understands that. “I don’t know why I wanted to see it.”

He strokes his right hand through her hair, soft and careful, even though he knows she’s not going to break, even though he knows she’s not going to pull away — not with as tight as her arms have wound themselves around his waist.

“It’s okay to care about where you grew up,” he offers, too awkward as he searches for a way to comfort her.

“I know.”

And he does get it, at least a little. Even though he knows it wasn’t a  _good_ time in her life, in wrecking the bad parts, the good parts are gone, too. And maybe demolishing the bad parts denies her some form of closure anyways. Skye should get to demolish her own demons.

She’s silent for a long time — in his arms, but also miles away, or maybe years away.

And then she’s back; even though nothing changes physically, he can feel her back in the moment.

He’s never held onto her for quite this long before.

And then she sort of shakes it off, puts away the nostalgia, and looks at the area with fresh eyes, like she’s done with the moment. Of course he lets her, doesn’t push it any harder, loosens his grip so she can pull back slowly.

“Want to go see about those tickets?”

“Yeah,” he answers, and they turn away from Hell’s Kitchen, back towards Broadway.

She’s quickly pulled away from his side and towards a news vendor, though, who is selling issues of _The New York Bulletin_ — Skye immediately picks one up, and he pays the man for it as he watches her scan over the headline story about the Daredevil.

“Did _he_ decide on that name?” Coulson asks Skye, but the question is answered by the vendor.

“No. _The Bulletin_ did that, and it caught on. Better name for a hero than the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, anyways.”

Coulson nods and steps closer to Skye so he can better see the picture on the front page, a full color photo that shows the Daredevil’s red costume.

“I like his suit,” he tells her, keeping his tone conversational but quiet, close to her ear and hopefully unheard by the vendor.

“No.”

She smiles at him, though, and he nudges her shoulder.

"You don't?" 

"No, I guess I do," she answers, dragging her index finger along the picture. "It's more necessary for him, though, to stay hidden."

“It also makes him a symbol, something for people to think of when they need hope.”

This is all part of a conversation they’ve had a few times recently about secrecy. Skye needs to stay secret, needs to stay off of radars, and part of that has been her official switch to _Daisy Johnson_ , a name that still doesn't feel right in his mouth.

But he’s convinced that she needs to get ahead of it, to own a name and a costume that might further separate her from _Skye_ , that might help make her a symbol of hope, too.

Not that Skye needs help from him to be a symbol of hope.

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolls her eyes, but he doesn’t think she minds, much, when he presses on this — not with the way she smiles at him.

“You look good in red,” he presses, offering a little _almost_ apologetic grin when she turns to meet his eye. He’s not very sorry for pushing, though.

“You want to see me in skintight red leather, Coulson?”

And he sees it suddenly in a way he didn’t when the words first came out: Skye dressed head to toe in butter-soft, tight red leather that hugs every curve.

It makes him choke — the sudden image, the smokey quality her voice takes on when she teases him, the realization of how close behind her he is standing. And he’s _better than this_ , better than being flushed with arousal in the middle of the street, better than awkward erections pointed at young women, better than letting his love for Skye turn into _this_.

Skye laughs, like this is a light little joke and not something horrifically embarrassing, and steps away, beckoning him behind her.

He follows, trying so hard to keep his eyes off her swaying hips that he crashes into her when she stops in front of a window and points at a mannequin.

“Something like that, right?”

It’s wearing a red leather corset, fishnet stockings, and a red leather miniskirt that doesn’t cover much of anything, and for a moment he can’t for the life of him figure out why the outfit exists.

Then he notices the riding crop stuck into the mannequin’s hand and the line of other mannequins dressed in similarly revealing outfits, and the whole scene makes sense.

“No,” he answers. “Of course not.”

“So, more like —”

He grabs her wrist, gentle but firm, as she points to the next mannequin, which is wearing some sort of black latex body suit.

“You know this isn’t what I meant.” It comes out as begging, almost, asking her to please not think this of him.

“Of course I do, Coulson,” she shakes her head like he’s being stupid. “I know what you meant. I’m just being...silly.”

He swallows and lets out a breath.

“Besides,” he tries to lighten the mood brought on by his own insecurity, “the black one would be for me.”

She doesn’t laugh, but he can feel her relax next to him.

“No,” Skye disagrees, her eyes scanning over the row of ridiculous ‘sexy’ outfits. “That one’s yours.” She points to one of the more female-shaped mannequins, which is dressed in ridiculously tiny shorts and a tight, cropped jacket displaying FBI across its breasts. “You could add a tie and sunglasses and be a sexy G-Man.”

He almost chokes on his own saliva, snorting back laughter and embarrassment in equal measure.

“I’m not sure I have the ass for that,” he manages to get out.

Skye peaks around behind his back, actually lifting his jacket up and pretending to consider for a moment that feels way too long to him. He can’t remember Skye ever being quite so...forward, though she’s always liked making him blush.

“No, you could pull it off,” she decides, making his cheeks burn even more as he eyes over the costumes in an attempt to keep from looking at her. “And, oh, look, it’s Bobbi and Hunter!”

The female-shaped mannequin is dressed as a dominatrix in a black thong and corset, holding a large metal stick in its right hand that Coulson is kind of afraid is a cattle prod. In its left hand is a leash attached to a male-shaped mannequin wearing nothing but a thong shaped like —

“Is that an elephant?”

“Yeah,” Skye nods, “a little grandiose for Hunter, maybe.”

He laughs — genuinely laughs so his stomach hurts — while Skye stands next to him, a pleased smile on her face.

“Fitz and Mack can fight over that one,” he suggests, pointing to a mannequin in a bikini with a tiny lab coat stretched across its breasts. She giggles, and then points to the next blonde female-shaped one.

“Does that mean Simmons is the nurse?” It’s a pretty standard little white dress with white fishnets hooked underneath.

Coulson just hums, not quite agreeing, not quite comfortable imagining Simmons — or any of the women on his team — in these outfits.

“That just leaves May…” Skye suggests.

“No,” he shakes his head, getting him another laugh out of Skye.

“I won’t tell her, Coulson,” she promises, but that’s not even really the issue, and he thinks she knows that. “You don’t want her to be the only one without an outfit for our new superhero team, do you?”

“This is our team?”

“The Sex Avengers,” she deadpans, and Coulson lets out a too-loud burst of sound, of not-quite-laughter, at the name.

“May can have the latex one,” he relents, pointing to the all-covering black body suit.

“I think she’d go for it,” Skye agrees. “But we might need to rethink mine. I don't think I have the boobs to pull off a corset.”

He coughs, too startled to even reply at first.

“No Skye,” she does a slightly lower pitched voice, which he guesses is meant to be him, “your boobs are fine.”

“You're perfect,” he blurts out. “Whatever you wear, you're...” There's not really a better word on the tip of his tongue.

“Perfect?”

He nods, and Skye smiles at him, like maybe his inadequate word choices are okay.

There’s a long silence, wherein the absurdity of the situation threatens to catch up to them and make things unbearably awkward, but Skye cuts it off by looping her right arm through his left and tugging him back towards Broadway.

“Let’s go get tickets,” she says as she urges him forward, away from the cast of the Sex Avengers.

“You don't have to have a superhero outfit,” Coulson tells her once they're far enough away from the window that they can't look back and see the mannequins.

“I know. I know it doesn't really change anything either way.”

“It doesn't. You're still going to be you, no matter what you're wearing.”

“Even a corset?”

“No. No corsets.”

She laughs and keeps her arm wound through his for the rest of their walk.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s all Hunter’s fault. Which isn’t saying much because he could blame a lot of things on Hunter, but this more than most.

He was already irritated when Hunter invited himself along on their shopping trip — a trip that was meant to be just him and Skye and Lola — so that now it’s the three of them taking the SUV into the city to buy stuff for May and Andrew’s couple’s shower.

Strike one against Hunter.

Coulson has never been a “man of honor” before (never even been a best man), but his first strategy has been to keep everything pretty gender neutral. Not that he’d have minded throwing May a pink, fluffy bridal shower if that’s what she wanted, but he knows May.

It’s actually not been too bad, taking such a large role in planning May’s second wedding (he wasn’t even invited to the first, so he’s chosen to be flattered). Plus, it means he’s gotten to spend extra time with Skye, who has also taken a special interest in the occasion since it’s the first wedding she’s ever been a part of.

Not that Skye is very good at planning parties or color schemes or really anything involving weddings. She’s actually awful at it, but in a way that he’s chosen to find charming. (It’s not really a choice, is the truth. There’s very little about Skye he doesn’t find charming.)

So today won’t be extra time alone with Skye. It’s something he might be able to live with, except that Hunter earns his second strike by pulling them into a sex shop. Because, apparently, no wedding shower is complete without penis-shaped ice cubes and inappropriate gifts intended to make the couple blush.

And Coulson has never seen May blush, highly doubts a sex toy would be the way to do it, but finds himself pulled along with an equally unenthusiastic Skye.

Hunter is a hard person to say ‘no’ to.

“I’m not making penis ice,” Skye declares as they look over the section of novelties, her back firmly to the more overtly sexual items. Coulson follows suit.

He’s been in his share of sex shops, but the situation is too incredibly uncomfortable to even acknowledge.

Hunter is _so_ getting inventory duty.

“I’ll make the penis ice,” Hunter tells her, managing to sound somehow magnanimous as he grabs a blue silicone mold of penises and a pink one of —

“Are those supposed to be vaginas?”

For some absurd reason, Skye saying the word _vagina_ makes Coulson blush.

“If you have to ask, you might need a bit of an anatomy lesson, Skye,” he teases her.

“If you think that’s what they look like, I understand why you and Bobbi got divorced,” she snaps back.

Hunter makes a show of throwing his hands over his heart, wounded, silicone trays flapping as he moves his arms.

Coulson can’t help but smile at the exchange, though, and the easy banter between them. It makes him less annoyed at the whole situation.

And then Hunter disappears back towards some ridiculously colorful dildos that are hopefully meant to be ornamental, leaving Coulson and Skye alone with the genital-shaped novelty items.

He wonders what the right move is — if he should maybe separate himself from her, if that would make this experience less embarrassing. Still, as she turns from the shelf of penis-shaped hats and glasses and lollipops, he finds himself trailing after her.

It’s a reflex more than anything; where Skye goes, he follows.

When he catches up, he finds her holding a comically oversized blue novelty dildo.

“People don’t actually use these, do they?”

His eyes widen at the sight of her hand, unable to fully wrap around the enormous girth of the object, which, when she holds the base at her pubic bone, comes up almost to her breasts. For some reason, it strikes him as hilarious, and he tries to bite back a snort of laughter.

It still sets her off, though, and she grasps his hand to tug him further into the store, both giggling like children.

“Those just looks unpleasant,” she tells him quietly in front of a rack of nipple clamps, pointing to the really mean ones at the bottom — the kind with teeth. “At least those are cute?”

The clamps in question are small and silver with a beaded chain between them.

“I like those,” he admits, pointing to something adorned with little bells. “They’re...festive.”

She laughs and pushes forward, like this actually isn’t terribly awkward, and he tries to roll with it as they approach shelves upon shelves of vibrators of every shape, size, and function.

Skye looks at the shelf like it’s full of alien objects.

Except, actually, he’s seen her look at alien objects like they’re more familiar.

“I never understood sex toys,” Skye tells him, and it’s exactly the conversation topic he’s _not_ prepared to have with her, personal instead of joking.

“Oh?” He makes a general noise, which he hopes doesn’t sound _too_ interested. But he _is_ interested, it’s just that he doesn’t know how to have this conversation.

They’ve gotten so much closer lately, gone out together in ways that have looked _unavoidably_ like dates, and whatever boundaries he’s put between them before have been all but demolished.

It feels, sometimes, like they’re in a holding pattern, waiting for something to break the status quo.

Or that could be wishful thinking on his part.

“When I’m with someone, I want to just be with _them_ , you know?”

It sounds surprisingly romantic to him. Not that he’s surprised at the idea that _Skye_ is romantic — he’s not, not at all, even if she might find the label misplaced. (Skye is obviously romantic, he thinks, the kind of person who would go out of her way to make someone else happy. He can only imagine how she must be with lovers.)

But that she would be romantic like this specifically, like wanting to focus sex on someone else’s body and not a toy...

“Miles always said it was leftover Catholic guilt, though, that I’m trying to justify. He was probably right.”

Maybe, he thinks, but it still strikes him as a shitty thing to tell someone. That their preferences are invalid in some way.

She looks up at him, then, which is when he realizes that she’s basically been talking about herself while he listens awkwardly. Her face is slightly flushed, as much of a blush as Skye tends to get, and she licks her lips.

Without her talking, though, it’s suddenly very quiet and very awkward, and he becomes more aware of the fact that there’s a porno movie playing somewhere at the very back of the store. The barely-there sound of a woman moaning is suddenly unbearably loud, and he needs to break the silence.

It’s his turn to share, that’s how this works, he knows that.

But he literally has no idea what to say.

She’s the one that speaks again.

“Have you ever…?”

It’s so obvious, from her pink cheeks and wide eyes, that she wishes she hadn’t asked the question. But it’s out there between them, out there with the quiet pornographic moans in the background.

“Yes.” She doesn’t press for more, but it hangs there unspoken between them anyways. “They can be fun,” he tells her after a few seconds pause, “in the right situation.”

“What’s the right situation?”

He has the weirdest realization then of how much more sex he’s had in his life than she has. Hell, he’d been sexually active for six or seven years before she was even born, which means he’s got probably twenty years on her.

Twenty more years of sex.

How do you ever close a gap like that, he wonders.

“When you can’t reach two places at once?”

She laughs.

Greater experience _really_ doesn’t make him feel like an expert, it turns out, but at least Skye seems less awkward now that the focus is on him instead of her.

“So maybe I’ve been missing out?”

“If you’ve never been curious, then no, probably not.”

He loves the smile she gives him, like he’s managed to say just the right thing.

The right thing about sex toys.

His life is strange.

Hunter is the one who breaks the silence, popping up between them and waving a leather harness with a large pink dildo attachment.

“I found the perfect shower gift,” he announces, and Skye and Coulson lock wide eyes over the apparatus.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Coulson tells him.

“Why not?” Hunter asks like he’s five, like he’s a child who can’t stand to hear the word _no_.

“Because I don’t want to have to clean up your blood after May kicks your ass,” Skye answers.

“The fewer comments you make on May’s sex life, the more likely you are to live through the wedding.”

“It’s a gag gift,” Hunter rolls his eyes at them like they’ve both managed to utterly miss the point, but he’s also clearly starting to question it.

“May won’t think it’s funny,” Coulson points out.

Which she won’t. Not at all.

“Best case scenario, she’s not into it and she kicks your ass for trying to embarrass her. Worst case scenario, she _is_ into it, and she kicks your ass for turning her thing into a gag,” Skye suggests in a way that actually gets through to Hunter.

She’s quite good at dealing with people, and it’s one of the reason he kind of likes her. A lot.

“That’s a pretty expensive model for a gag anyways,” Coulson adds, which earns him two pairs of raised eyebrows.

“Oh ho ho, and the Director’s own proclivities come out.”

Coulson manages to stare down Hunter, keeping a perfectly blank expression that he knows is plenty scary.

When Hunter looks as Skye, he’s greeted by a similarly blank — almost bored — expression, and his mouth drops open as though he’s realized something.

“I’ll just leave the two of you to...whatever you were doing, then.”

Definitely three strikes against Hunter.

“Is there anything worse than inventory duty?” He asks Skye once Hunter is out of hearing range.

“He’s already making the penis ice.”

Coulson snorts and follows behind Skye.

“Do your recruits need any lifelike targets for practice?”

“We could use someone for self-defense demonstrations.”

“I was thinking more like someone Lincoln could electrocute.”

“If we put him in a flame-retardant suit —”

“That’s optional.”

They walk out the front door to wait for Hunter, dreaming up ever more elaborate punishments.


	3. Chapter 3

“We could just go to the drugstore,” Coulson insists as they push their way into the front doors of the sex shop across the street from their hotel.

“The drugstore is, like, eight blocks away. This is right here.”

He follows because he’s the one that forgot to pack the condoms, so he’s not going make Skye trek further through the city to rectify that.

He supposes it’s not so bad, can’t possibly be any worse than the last time he was in a sex shop with her. Actually, it could be significantly better.

They don’t have to trek past too many sex toys to find a surprisingly large display of condoms and lube — most of it flavored.

“Wow,” she breathes. “I never knew there were so many flavors.”

He laughs and presses up behind her as they look at the options.

“Bubblegum?”

“Ugh, gross,” she answers, shaking her head. “Banana?”

Coulson’s abdomen contracts in almost-laughter.

“A little on the nose, isn’t it?”

She drops it back in the holder.

“Scotch whiskey,” he holds up the red tartan packaging.

“There’s no way that tastes good,” Skye responds, wrinkling her nose at him in distaste. “Mint?”

“Sounds the least gross,” he agrees, though Skye is still frowning. “Do you want to try it?”

“I’m pretty happy just tasting _you_ ,” she tells him, which is unexpectedly hot. _Really_ hot. Hotter than it probably should be.

“I’m pretty happy with that, too,” he agrees, and maybe because they’re standing in a sex shop and he’s feeling a little more _lewd_ than he generally does, he presses his hips against her ass, letting her feel his erection. “Let’s grab something basic and go,” he whispers.

Skye looks up at him, way too amused, and wiggles her ass back against him as she slides over to the selection of flavored lubes, a little bucket of fifty cent samples.

“But they have flavored lubes, too.”

He groans, a needy little sound, because they only really use lube for one thing and, well, he likes it quite a lot.

She starts sorting through them, purposefully slow, purposefully teasing him.

Almost defiant, he grabs a handful of the lubes — five or six little tubes — and a few of the flavored condoms, too, and sort of bullies her up to the cashier. She goes along with him, laughing at his eagerness.

When they get back to the hotel room, their purchases contained in a not-so-discreet black plastic bag, Skye leans back against the door and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Strip, Coulson.”

And he was already hard, already unable to stop thinking about where the night might go, but her voice makes it worse.

He swallows and tugs his black t-shirt over his head, leaving him bare chested in his jeans. Skye smiles, black bag dangling from her index finger, as he toes off shoes and socks before stripping the rest of the way down.

His cock almost brushes his belly button, it’s so hard, and Skye licks her lips obscenely as she takes him in.

“Lie down on the bed.”

He does, on his back with his legs bent, feet flat on the bed.

She’s still dressed, has only slid off her shoes, when she joins him, crawling up between his parted knees, and his breath comes too fast as the anticipation ratchets up. The fact that she’s dressed heightens the power imbalance and makes everything more intense; it’s something she’s added lately in this little ritual, and he's surprised how much he likes it.

He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t some fear — still, after so much time together — mixed into his reactions to her in this position.

He’s so exposed, after all, so utterly open and vulnerable.

But, she’s _Skye_.

She slides her fingers from his knee _almost_ to his groin, barely brushing her fingertips over his pubic hair, just enough sensation to make him shiver. It settles him, somehow — like the adrenaline is still there, making all of his senses almost too sharp, making his breath quick, but the arousal is more important, more in focus.

The arousal and the trust.

“You okay?”

He nods, a little too adamantly, and Skye smiles down at him before dumping the contents of the black plastic bag unceremoniously across his chest. She doesn’t tell him not to move, doesn’t ask him to keep his arms still by his sides, but he does it anyways.

It’s probably more for him than for her, but he likes to think that she appreciates it anyways — him fully giving up the reins here.

“What do you want to try first?”

“Surprise me,” he manages. He’s not sure he has the brainpower for this.

She nods, picks up a tiny tube of blue goo, and breaks off the plastic tip before making a dot of the stuff on her finger. Slowly, she brings it to her lips and touches it to her tongue.

“That’s not half bad,” she tells him, though he’s more entranced by the vision of her finger brushing against her tongue. She adds another dot of lube and touches it to his mouth, lets him wrap his tongue around her finger.

“Blueberry?” He manages to enunciate around her finger in his mouth.

She’s right, it’s not half bad. He sucks on her finger, massages it with his tongue, and she smiles before drawing her hand back.

“Hmm,” she agrees and sets it down to his right before snapping the lid off the next.

The taste of it makes her gag, and she tosses it away before he can see the flavor.

It’s stupid how adorable she is with her face scrunched up, her tongue poking out in distaste. He probably shouldn’t be thinking about how adorable she is when he’s naked and spread open in front of her, but he’s a complicated man. And his feelings for her have always been complicated.

(Or maybe, actually, they’ve always been really really simple.)

“Ugh, I think I’m done with this game,” she admits, brushing aside the rest of their purchases and clearing off his chest.

“I told you we should have just gotten something basic.”

“I guess you have good ideas occasionally,” she admits, “but at least this one’s okay.”

With the blue lube held between her right thumb and index finger, she makes another small dot on the tip of his penis, and then uses her index finger to rub it around the head.

“Fuck,” he hisses. The head of his cock was already slick from arousal, and just her finger brushing over the sensitive parts of him is enough to make him feel on edge.

When her finger is followed by her tongue, tasting the lube she’s spread across him, he grunts helplessly and clenches his hands into fists. (It’s moments like this when he misses the feel of fingernails digging into flesh on his left palm, a stabilizing kind of mild pain to keep him in the moment.)

She takes her sweet time, lapping her tongue against him before pressing firm little circles all over the head of his cock, as though it’s terribly important that she gather up every bit of flavor before her lips close over him.

One firm, too brief, suck later, and she crawls over his body to kiss him, as though sharing the taste. He kisses back greedily, tongue sliding enthusiastically against hers, and he loves the feel of her over him at moments like this — of her clothes on his bare skin.

When she pulls back from the kiss, his hands are still in fists at his sides, but he’s having a hard time not thrusting his hips up towards her, seeking some additional stimulation on his cock.

Once she’s back between his legs, she squeezes out the rest of the contents of the small tube onto her index finger and then meets his eyes.

“You want this?”

He nods, again overeager, but it’s never turned Skye off before and dignity in bed is highly overrated.

“But you —”

They’re not going to have much use for those condoms they went out for in the first place, he knows.

“We can worry about me later.”

And then she slides her hand down between his legs until her index finger brushes against him and sinks halfway inside. He moans from the first contact, too excited for this.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” he agrees, clenching his fists as he raises his hips, invites her to press further inside of him.

She’s slow at first — slower and more gentle than she needs to be — but she always is, soft and gentle and coaxing, never forcing and it’s probably why he can feel so comfortable opening up to her like this. Letting her in, in every way possible.

Because it’s not like he’s not done variations of this with other people — been fucked in different ways with fingers and cocks and dildos — but it’s never quite been _this_ before, not with anyone else. 

Skye holds his eyes as he presses her middle finger inside of him, too, but she keeps her thrusts soft and shallow. They both know he’ll be gone as soon as she gets in deeper, so she takes her time, lets them have this. 

Then she leans forward and pulls the head of his cock into her mouth as she pushes her fingers deeper, and any semblance of stillness is replaced by his sudden groaning, hips raised off the bed, lungs aching as he tries to catch a breath.

“Skye,” he grunts her name as the sensations build and he abandons his attempt to keep his hands at his sides, choosing instead to seek out her left hand, which is resting against his inner thigh, with his right.

She holds tight to his hand as she curves her fingers, pressing just where he needs it, and he loses it completely. He’s vaguely aware of gasping, of disembodied moans, as he grasps at her hand and just lets it come.

His orgasm lasts for what feels like several minutes, drawn out by her tongue pressing rhythmically against his cock even once she draws her fingers out, until he’s left panting on the bed — a sweaty, blissed out mess.

When she pulls her fingers out of the tight grasp of his right hand, he reaches for her again, but is soothed by a gentle hand on his thigh before she tugs her shirt over her head then tosses her bra after.

It’s a naked Skye who crawls up the bed beside him, who gathers him against her and lets him nuzzle his face into the side of her neck so she’s all he can see and smell and hear and taste and feel.

“I think we missed the point of the flavored stuff,” he murmurs into her neck sometime later, when most of his sweat has dried and she’s scratching her nails softly through his hair.

“I like our way better.”

He laughs and nods against her neck.


End file.
